Pulp Fiction at a cafe
by rakkauy
Summary: supporting a colombian emigre's first experience of an American cafe


I first saw her at the café while we were both ordering our drinks, and I noticed that she was struggling with what I can only call the script for ordering a drink. Perhaps she wasn't familiar with the items on the menu, or perhaps she wanted something she didn't see on the menu? As one might guess, this woman had only recently arrived in our country, about a week before I saw her – an ephemeral visitor from Bogota, Colombia. As she looked around and struggled to articulate what she wanted, our eyes met and we shared a fleeting smile. Our interaction made clear that I would have to play the part of the host to America – a heavy responsibility indeed. Having traveled around the world when I was a child, I myself was no stranger to the surreal experiences that often accompany being in a drastically different environment. But I had nothing to go on until she uttered underneath her breath: "Turco!?" I immediately realized what was going on; she wanted a Turkish coffee! Immediately my attitude toward her vulnerability and wriggling about changed. She wasn't distressed because she didn't understand the options on the menu, but because she was looking for the serious gourmet shit and couldn't find it. I blurted "Turkish coffee!", and she looked back with a smiling "yes!" and then pushed forward toward the barista, confidently repeating my contribution in a broken and heavily accented English. But it's true that she did skip a step in our scripts when she lunged forward, inadvertently cutting in front of a visibly hurried woman who evidently knew exactly what she wanted. How angry was this woman? I've never seen anybody re-cut somebody else in a line, but she aggressively maneuvered in front of our unfortunate émigré like a basketball guard setting a pick, adding with a scowl: "You cut me!" She kept her stare on her, as if asking for a response. The Turkish coffee was no longer Esmeralda's biggest problem, and she responded with a few broken words that weren't audible and that didn't communicate any message other than "What?" This added another layer of frustration for the perpetually hurried woman, who merely repeated, but louder: "You cut me!" Esmeralda may have had trouble with her speech in English, but now she was speechless, frozen in the moment. The woman yelled even louder: "Say something!" Now Esmeralda and I responded at the same instant, except that I snarkily uttered "something!" while she exasperatingly uttered "What?" The woman arrogantly retorted: "Do you speak English?" Esmeralda answered: "No, I don't speak a single word of English!" I turned to Esmeralda and stole her line without meaning to: "What?" The woman now turned to me: "The language, English! Does she speak it?" She didn't stick around for my answer, but angrily turned to the door and began to briskly leave the café, without a coffee, a cappuchino, or an espresso. Esmeralda also made a move away from the counter and sat at a nearby table, looking confused and slightly dejected. Had she done something terrible? I looked at the barista and then turned toward the table, pausing for a moment and then going over to sit across from Esmeralda. "What has happened?" she frantically asked me. I didn't know how to respond, because nothing had really happened except Esmeralda had a run-in with a frustrated and petulant person that one comes across once in a while, regardless of one's nationality. It had nothing to do with her, but more worryingly for me, it had nothing to do with everyday Americans. Esmeralda was receiving the wrong kind of introduction to America. I got myself together and concluded that this had to be a teachable moment. I asked inquisitively: "Do they have assholes in Colombia?" This was apparently Esmeralda's day to be completely confused by everything she encountered, because she asked back: "Have assholes?" Now I felt like part of the problem; this was not what I meant. But luckily, I do have an international background, so I clarified: "Culeros?" She showed a look of recognition but was still unable to respond, so I clarified some more: "Tienen Culeros en Colombia?" Instantly she yelled "Si, Si, Si!", catching herself and then repeating "Yes, Yes! We have assholes!" Realizing she had connected with my meaning, I quickly tried to reinforce my feedback about what had happened, for she obviously remained puzzled about how ordering a coffee could have triggered the ill-tempered woman. "You see", I spoke at length, "we got the same shit over here that you got over there, but it's just a little bit different." I went on to explain how in America, many different kinds of people don't know each other and don't like to talk to each other, and so an important way to continue to get along without talking to each other is to follow rules. She understood what I meant, but it was an overly abstract way to explain the phenomenon of angry people in America. I stopped myself from going further into my unsolicited exposition, withholding my gathering desire to mention Robert Frost's idea that in America, it was sometimes good fences that made good neighbors. Esmeralda was much calmer, but was still visibly stressed. What could I do? As a temporary self-appointed emissary to America, I felt it my responsibility to make sure she could relax, as she probably intended to do when she walked into a café. I wracked my brain, then asked: "Do they have foot massages in Colombia?" I didn't know how to say foot massage in Spanish, but I could tell that she understood, looking down at her feet and back to me. "Because I'm a foot master!" I added, wryly bragging about my massaging skills. She paused, continued to look down at the ground, and then looked up, horrified. On that day, two women ran out of the café without ordering what they came in to order. I wasn't concerned about the petulant woman, but Esmeralda? What had I done? Did I say the right thing? Had she understood what I meant?" I spent some time pondering these questions and wondering what had just happened, as I sipped on my Turkish coffee.


End file.
